


Zeal

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 07:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10611984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Smaug will share only with one other.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Goin’ off the Arkenstone = Silmaril theory.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

With a stomach newly full of several dozen wargs, Smaug slinks back through the halls of his mountain, leisurely lighting the torches wherever he goes—he likes to see the firelight lick across his treasure. He likes to see the gold gleam and glisten, glowing bright and dancing off the polished walls—he keeps the more reflective surfaces untouched. Other structures have already been collapsed with his tail and wings, but he causes no new rubble now—not when he isn’t yet sure where his greatest prize resides. He won’t risk crushing it. He picks his way carefully back into the main chamber, and that prize is just where he expected.

Knee-deep in gold, the little elf finger-combs his way frantically through the coins. The rolling hills clank and topple under his wrath, but he hasn’t the strength to search truly effectively; it could take him years to find a single trinket. He doesn’t look up as Smaug slithers onto his favourite mound and settles down into the decadent topography. 

For some time, Smaug simply lounges there, enjoying both his satiated appetite and the handsome figure before him, so fiercely at work. When at last he tires of the relative silence, Smaug purrs, “Don’t you grow bored of that, my treasure?” The hall rumbles with his voice.

Maedhros finally glances over his shoulder. He fixes Smaug with a piercing stare, unperturbed by all of Smaug’s hulking mass and fire and razor sharp teeth and nails. He mutters with clear irritation, “You have hidden it from me again.”

Smaug grins, his towering muzzle stretching wide with it. Even bearing fangs doesn’t unsettle Maedhros; he simply continues his task, only sparing Smaug a few looks in between. Smaug muses anyway, “It is mine to do with as I choose.”

Maedhros pauses his search long enough to glower. It doesn’t mar his attraction in the slightest; if anything, Smaug likes his delicate features best when twisted in a snarl. He would make a decent ally, were he a proper beast, at least four times as tall and as full of fire as his hair suggests. With an idle flick of one massive claw, Smaug chuckles, “You may always take it from me, if you dare. Or leave, unscathed, without.”

Maedhros lets his scowl linger a moment longer, then returns fully to digging. Smaug flicks his tail in benign amusement. This little creature is, perhaps, the only one thing that Smaug could ever give that promise to: he doesn’t part with treasure easily. But he’s grown fond of his sole companion throughout their many years, and he doesn’t think he would truly want to exterminate anything so _brave_. Although, much of that recklessness could simply be a symptom of obsession—Maedhros guards his last possession like a dragon. 

Unfortunately, his immortality isn’t quite so evolved yet—he’s still of fragile flesh. While Smaug thoroughly enjoys these games, Maedhros’ frustration soon grows palpable. When he’s nearly at the point of tears, Smaug takes pity on him and stretches out a paw, overturning an entire stack of gold. 

Right side up, the coins topple down, and in their wake, a lone jewel bobs atop their pile. Maedhros’ eyes dart to it. He wades forward with increasing speed, until he has his arms around it, the iridescent surface cradled carefully in the fabric of his tunic. Direct contact seems to burn his skin, though he’s adjusted to even Smaug’s hide well enough. He lets out a little sigh of relief while he holds it close, his handsome features melting once again to peace. 

Smaug is _almost_ sorry for disrupting that. He still purrs, “You must have known it was always here.”

“I know,” Maedhros mutters, wetting his chapped lips. “But I just...” He trails off and shakes his head, lets his eyes fall closed and opens them again, then makes his way across the tumultuous sea. 

At Smaug’s side, he settles, leaning into the warmth and pillowing his soft cheek with his lustrous hair. He’s likely exhausted—the stone always drains him in one way or another. But holding it, he seems whole again, and Smaug likes the colour in his face that peeks between his freckles. Sometimes, when Smaug sees him in just the right flicker of light and angle, he looks like a Maiar, maybe even Valar, born of flames, the same kind that beat in Smaug’s volcanic heart. But then he’ll make the tiniest noise, adjust his thin limbs just so, and he’s small again, slight, subtle, and invaluable. 

Smaug murmurs, “Sleep, my treasure,” and sweeps a wing protectively over him, cocooning him in dream-filled darkness.


End file.
